64, Headquarters, cornerist, accountant, and entrepreneur.
By Astrid Lorange
CB: There are three goats and a dozen chooks in the back
corridor. Please don’t be alarmed if you cross them in the copper.
Your job this week, as resident translator and scholar of maps, is to
address the members of the houses in Greek, Swedish, German, and
Norwegian, and further, to boil the holiday puddings in the kettle. I
have left your pay in the icebox. I hope you find devilled eggs a fair
trade? What, for example, could be the proper price for your
collaboration? Wire it to the floor. On still nights the lions might be
heard from the zoo across the harbour; on thrashy nights we are
tempted to cut tunnels with our whisker blades. Your mathematics is
terribly off, but your ideograms, CB, are simply to die for. (During the
war, always play mock war.) I invent a description of this block. All
Things Are Nothing To Me, even when they look identical in
chemical tests, even in a ginger brew.